Chapter 2 - The Skeletons of Westbridge
The private elevator of Harbor Crown Galleria carried us up to the penthouse suite that spanned the entire top floor of the tower, overlooking the sparkling expanse of San Diego Bay.
The city lights were just beginning to flicker on against the deepening violet of the dusk sky, but inside the sprawling, minimalist living room, the atmosphere was thick with a silence that demanded an accounting.
Nathaniel poured two glasses of scotch at the wet bar, handing one to me before taking a slow sip from his own. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall, his broad back to the room, staring out at the harbor.
“You didn’t tell me about Westbridge,” he said quietly.
I sat down on the edge of a white leather sofa, holding the heavy crystal glass between my palms, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
“There was nothing to tell,” I replied softly. “It happened twelve years ago. I was twenty-two, terrified, and completely alone. When Steven Hale’s lawyers threatened to sue me for defamation and slander if I ever spoke about what happened in that break room, I packed my two garbage bags and moved across town. I learned a long time ago, Nathaniel, that when the world breaks a poor girl, nobody stops to pick up the pieces. You just learn to walk on the sharp edges.”
Nathaniel’s shoulders stiffened. He turned around slowly, his expression dark with a pain that mirrored my own. He walked over, knelt on the floor in front of the sofa, and gently took the glass from my hands, setting it on the marble coffee table. Then he took my hands in his.
“You were never alone after the day I met you,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “And you certainly aren’t alone now.”
“I know,” I whispered, looking down at his face. “I just... seeing Vanessa today, flashing those diamonds and acting like she owned the earth... it brought back all that helplessness. For a second, standing in that boutique, I felt like that twenty-year-old girl again, standing in a hallway while rich people decided whether I was a liar or a thief.”
“They aren’t rich, love,” Nathaniel said, a cold, hard edge returning to his voice. “They are leveraged.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Vanessa Hale’s family—the Whitmores—built their fortune on commercial retail developments in the late nineties. But over the past decade, poor management, speculative bad investments, and an addiction to high-society luxury have hollowed them out. Do you know who holds their primary corporate debt?”
I shook my head slowly.
“Cross Holdings,” Nathaniel said with a grim, humorless smile. “Three weeks ago, the Whitmore family trust defaulted on a twelve-million-dollar balloon payment for their commercial holdings in Riverside. They came to my executive team begging for a restructuring extension.”
My breath hitched. “You own them.”
“I own the paper they sleep on,” Nathaniel corrected softly. “And as of five minutes ago, when Miller forwarded me the financial files from my office down below... I have instructed my legal counsel to call in the entirety of the Whitmore family debt, effective immediately. By tomorrow morning, Vanessa Hale’s father will have to liquidate his country club memberships, his vacation homes in Cabo, and every single diamond his wife owns just to stave off bankruptcy.”
I stared at him, stunned. “Nathaniel... you’re going to ruin them?”
“Not because of me,” he said firmly. “Because of you. Nobody touches my wife. Nobody humiliates her on a public livestream for millions of people to mock, and nobody lays a hand on her face. The bill has come due.”
Before I could answer, the secure intercom on the wall buzzed.
Nathaniel pressed the speaker button.
“Speak, Miller.”
“Sir, you’re going to want to look at your tablet,” the head of security said, his voice flat. “The livestream Miss Reed broadcasted today has broken regional engagement records. It’s currently trending worldwide under the hashtag #HarborCrownMeanGirls. The internet has identified all five women.”
“And?” Nathaniel asked.
“And... the public backlash is catastrophic, sir. Within forty minutes of the stream ending, Elaine Whitmore was asked to step down from the board of the San Diego Children’s Museum. Brooke Mercer’s sponsorship deals with three major luxury cosmetics brands were terminated via email an hour ago. And Monica Hale’s country club has formally suspended her family’s membership pending an ethics review.”
A grim satisfaction washed over me, though it was mixed with a strange, dizzying disbelief. The digital mob—so often cruel and unpredictable—had turned its wrath entirely onto the women who had tried to destroy me.
“What about Vanessa?” I asked.
“Vanessa Hale is currently locked inside her husband’s mansion in La Jolla,” Miller replied. “Reporters have surrounded the gates. Her husband, Steven—the same Steven Hale who was blackballed from Westbridge twelve years ago—just tried to issue a press statement claiming the entire internet is misrepresenting the facts. It’s currently being ripped apart by live commentators on every major news network.”
Nathaniel nodded slowly. “Keep monitoring them, Miller. I want a full report on their corporate assets by midnight.”
“Yes, sir.”
The intercom clicked off.
Nathaniel stood up, pulling me gently to my feet into his arms. He rested his chin on the top of my head, breathing in the scent of my hair.
“Forget about them,” he whispered against my temple. “Tonight is my mother’s seventieth birthday gala at the Grand Pacific Hotel. Every socialite in Southern California will be there, watching us walk through those doors. I want you to wear the most breathtaking dress in this city, walk beside me like the queen you are, and let them see that the past has no power over you anymore.”
May you like
“I don’t need a breathtaking dress, Nathaniel,” I smiled softly against his chest. “I have you.”
“You have both,” he smiled back, kissing the top of my head. “Now go upstairs. My mother’s gala starts in three hours. And trust me... you’re going to want to see the dress I had delivered this morning.”
